


The reluctant partygoer

by Hypatia_66



Series: Misleading appearances [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:43:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya goes to a party and has to be rescued, by the one person in danger from him.





	The reluctant partygoer

“A Cheer-Up-February party, what next?” His partner threw the piece of paper down in disgust.

“What’s wrong with that? Great idea – who’s holding it, can I come?”

“Section 8. I’m invited as an occasional researcher – so, no you can’t. I don’t intend to go myself.”

“Oh, come on. You must. Cheer up February – it’ll do you good.”

“I’m fine as I am. I have no objection to February.”

*******************

On the day of the party, he was given no choice. “You promise to come and rescue me, if I’m not back in an hour?”

“Hour and a half.”

His party-loving friend marched him along the corridor to the elevator and down to the Lab, from which irritating sounds of frivolity and fun were already emerging. He was pushed in and abandoned.

A drink was thrust into his hand, canapés waved under his nose (that was more like it – the drink was disgusting), and he was dragged into an impromptu dance under a lighting system set up to confuse even the least impressionable agent. And he was not only confused, but reminded of something he thought he had recovered from. He blinked under the revolving lights, and tried to withdraw, but he was held tight in the arms of a female researcher.

“I haven’t been down here for a while – you must be new. What’s your name?” he asked her, for something to say.

“Debra, what’s yours, handsome?” She was holding him very tight against her.

He groaned inwardly – was this wretched girl drunk _already_? “Illya,” he said, reluctant to give her any encouragement.

“The lighting’s clever, isn’t it,” she said. “We rigged it this afternoon. What does it make you think of?”

He stared down at her, a little vaguely, and shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She smiled, and drew him away from the dance to a darker corner and a sofa.

******************

By nine, it had been two hours, and there was no sign of his friend, so he sauntered down to the Lab to see what was going on, and maybe effect a rescue. Fairly sure of a welcome, given how many of the female researchers had been more or less intimate with him, he wandered in looking for his partner. It was a while before his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering and revolving coloured lights, and then he spotted his quarry in a dark corner, in a lip-lock with a young woman. Ah, he smiled to himself. Having fun. At last.

At least it should have been fun, but his cool-blooded partner didn’t look as if it was. His looks and shy demeanour meant that girls often wanted to kiss him; some even managed a quick peck on his lips, and counted themselves lucky if, just occasionally, he responded. This, however, looked like an up-close and over-personal intrusion into the internal arrangements of his mouth, and he definitely wasn’t responding – not positively, anyway. There was panic in his eyes.

Taking pity on his friend’s struggles, he strolled over and cleared his throat. “Illya? Ah, sorry to spoil the fun; can I interrupt for a moment? I need to speak to my partner.”

The girl released him, and Illya fell back, staring up at him and looking very much the worse for wear. He was pink, and his mouth was bruised, even bleeding a little. Napoleon helped him to his feet and they went out into the corridor, leaving the smiling girl to find another more willing partner.

“You’re late.”

“But you were having such a good time.”

He found himself thrust against the wall, his partner’s furious blue eyes glaring into his. “Don’t try me too far, my friend,” he said, his voice a growl.

“Hey, cool down, buddy. I came, I saw, I delivered you from being conquered.”

“There’s something going on. You might have been _too_ late. I could _kill_ you – _now_ – and I don’t want to.”

Napoleon stood up and straightened his tie. “What do you mean?”

“It was like Thanatopsis again.”

“Explain.”

“You said my name. It was a trigger. I was desperate for your help but, for a moment, I wanted to kill you.”

“Medical. Now.”

“Napoleon…”

“We need the psychiatrist.”

“No, the Old Man.”

“Definitely not. I’ll call him – he can come to Medical.”

“What about the party, and whatever it was that set it off?”

“I’ll get Section 3 onto it.”

*******************

Under guard, Illya sat sullenly in the psychiatrist’s outer office, waiting for him to return. It was late, the man had already gone home. He’d been interviewed – interrogated – by the Old Man, and felt wrung out, and lonely. His partner had been forbidden to stay with him, or speak to him further. Even the guard had been told not to talk to him.

It was almost a relief when the doctor entered and said, “Illya. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Come into my office.”

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“The people at the party are being debriefed. Don’t worry.”

“That girl. Debra.”

“She’s there too.”

He relaxed a little, and when the doctor started to ask questions, just for once, he was willing to talk. But they wouldn’t let him go home. He had to stay, under guard, not permitted to communicate with anyone.

His dreams were vivid and frightening. Several times during the night he cried his partner’s name, to the slight consternation of the guard outside his room. He woke himself up twice, trying to get out of bed to save his friend, and at five in the morning sleep finally deserted him. He sat up tousled and sweaty.

Showered and shaved, he sat in his shirtsleeves waiting for the world to wake up. There were a few magazines on the table; stupid, boring; not worth wasting his time on.

The door opened. He looked round and started. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be able …Where’s the guard?”

“I must have missed him - maybe he had to take a comfort break,” she said, coming closer, and rumpling his hair, her sharp nails scratching his neck. He stood up grasping her wrist and twisted it behind her so that she cried out. But she was stronger than he was expecting. She wrenched herself out of his hold and flung her arms about him and pressed her mouth to his lips, forcing them open. He felt a sharp pain and, pushing her away, he spat furiously. There was blood. Pouring from his mouth.

“What have you done to me?” he cried, and collapsed.

*********************

The guard heard strange sounds coming from the room as he returned to his place. He’d only been away two minutes. The sounds were more worrying than the ones the agent had been making when dreaming; more like choking. He opened the door and found him lying gasping on the floor in a pool of blood.

Hurrying medical staff took him to intensive care and fitted IV lines and took samples for analysis. Someone alerted the Chief, who appeared surprisingly quickly and talked at length with the doctor.

“It’s not too serious. There’s a cut inside his mouth, and a mark on his neck that suggests he was injected with an anti-coagulant, and maybe a knockout drug. It’s been treated and he’ll be fine. Physically, anyway.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Just the name – Debra.”

At this point, Napoleon arrived and interrupted them, demanding to see his friend. “He’s not dangerous,” he said. “He won’t touch me. He knew what had happened at the party last night and told me. I trust him implicitly.”

“Very well. Keep the door open so that the guard can hear if anything happens,” said the Chief.

*********************

His friend was lying back with his eyes shut, but they opened when he came in, and he smiled. “Are they trusting me now?” he said.

“Seems so, but only up to a point,” he replied, leaving the door ajar. “What happened?”

“That girl. She came in here when the guard was away for a few minutes, visiting the bathroom. She scratched my neck. Kissed me again and pushed something sharp into my mouth, Oh…” his revulsion would have been comical had it not been so serious.

“She’s disappeared.”

“What?”

“Yep. Gone. No-one saw her go.”

“Back to Thrush.”

“Yes. I’d like to know how she got in under the radar. _And_ how she got out.”

“Napoleon…” he stopped. There was no need to continue, his friend knew what was coming.

“I know. You’re afraid of what they’ve done to your mind. Illya – don’t you think the fact that you were aware of it means you don’t _need_ to be afraid?”

There was a pause. Illya looked up and, his voice low and solemn, said, “Your faith is touching, but I don’t trust myself.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because I frequently want to kill you.” And his mischievous chuckle escaped as his partner, stepping back, looked at him warily, and then laughed out loud.

************************************


End file.
